A Little Time
by eleanorc
Summary: Anthony Strallan had been in a bit of a rut, and he had no intention of ending it. Then Edith Crawley moved in next door, and his choice in the matter became non-existent. Modern A/U.
1. Chapter 1

Edith cursed under her breath as cold water sprayed her in the face. Hunched under the sink as she was, a wrench in her hand as if holding it would help her better use it, the leaking sink was no longer dripping but bursting at the seams. One week alone in Auntie Ros' and Edith was about to flood the place. Brilliant.

Edith refused to call her parents. Not only could they do nothing from their home an hour away, she had no desire to appear any more incompetent than they already considered her. Tom and Matthew both refused to answer their mobiles. So much for her heroic brothers-in-law. And she knew no other men, of course.

Just as she was pulling out her mobile to call an emergency plumber, Edith remembered her aunt mentioning the couple next door. Perhaps a bit of neighborly assistance could solve the problem before she had to rack up a bill.

It was a short jaunt from Aunt Rosamund's stoop to the neighbors', whose house was identical except for their navy door versus Auntie's red one. Edith rapped quickly before she had a chance to retreat from shyness.

It took a while for someone to come, and when he did he seemed completely nonplussed. "I, hello, yes?" he greeted, frowning gently. Edith found herself at a momentary loss, staring up at the tall man and his crystalline eyes.

"Hello," she said, blushing when she realized she was soaked through, barefoot, and still holding the wrench.

"You look like you're in a bit of a pickle," he observed, a smile playing on his lips.

"Do you know how to use one of these?" she asked, waving the tool before him.

"In theory," he hedged, stepping through the front door. "Lead the way and I'll see what I can do."

The bathroom was on the second floor, and Edith led him there in a hurry. "I, well I dropped a ring down the drain, and I thought I'd catch it in the pipe, but I seem to have caused more of a problem."

The man chuckled as he knelt down before the open cabinet, wrench in hand, to take a look. "Would you like me to get the pipe off, or tighten it back up?"

"At the risk of sounding terribly greedy, could you do both? I'd hate to lose my ring."

As her neighbor fussed with the sink, head buried in the cabinet, Edith observed his faded navy sweater and well-worn corduroys. He looked dapper, even in older clothes, and he was absurdly long. The bathroom was more than adequate but with the two of them sharing space it felt quite crowded.

"Bugger," she heard the poor man gasp as water sprayed at him. Edith was torn between giggling and apologizing emphatically. But as soon as it had started the water had been sealed off again, and the man was kneeling up, holding out a thin gold ring to Edith.

"My hero," she teased, taking the ring. She slipped it on her right hand with a relieved sigh and closed her eyes for a moment.

"It must be quite important," he suggested.

"My sister gave it to me for being a bridesmaid in her wedding," Edith explained. Then without thinking she said, "She passed away last summer." She opened her eyes, knowing she had made things awkward. The poor man was still on his knees, shoulders, chest and hair wet from his endeavor. "I'm so, so sorry," she said suddenly. "You've been a huge help. Oh, and you're utterly drenched. I'm really am terribly sorry."

The man stood up, bracing himself on the sink. "I'm glad I could help. No need to be sorry." Edith smiled at him as they moved back downstairs.

"Can I make you some lunch for your efforts?" she offered, trying to ease the awkwardness of passing through her bedroom to reach the hall. In her haste to stop the leak she hadn't thought about having a strange man in her room.

"No, no thank you. I'm quite alright," he dismissed. Edith led him to the door instead. "Are you related to Mrs. Painswick? You look very much like her."

"She's my Aunt. I've started work here in London and needed a place to stay."

"I guess that makes us neighbors," he mumbled as he pulled his soaked sweater over his head. Edith felt a bit intrusive, as if watching him undress—ridiculous considering he was still wearing a button-down underneath. She rolled her eyes when she noticed the glint of his wedding band.

"Guess so," she shrugged. They stood at the open door for a moment, both too socially awkward to know how to end the conversation. "I really do owe you something," Edith said. "You saved me today. Auntie Ros is in Cambria for another couple of weeks and she's convinced she'll come home to a pile of rubble and ash as if I'm twelve years old."

"Well perhaps I'll just call in a favor next time I try to set my kitchen on fire with biscuits or some such thing, alright? Until then don't let it worry you. I'm always glad to help."

Edith smiled. "Not much of a cook?"

"Deplorable. _Ghastly_," he replied, running a hand through his blonde hair.

"Your wife must make up for that, no?"

"Uh, yes she does." He smiled and huffed a little laugh before trotting back down the steps to the sidewalk.

"Wait!" Edith nearly shouted, blushing at sounding so unintentionally frantic. He stopped and turned, grinning politely in anticipation. "I don't know your name."

"I'm Anthony," he said, and he looked a little sad if anything.

"I'm Edith. Thank you, Anthony. You really are a lifesaver."

He laughed at that as if it were some inside joke, waved, and retreated to his own door. She watched, leaning against the railing on her stoop as he opened it. Pausing once more before entering, Anthony turned back to give Edith another crooked smirk.

"Good day to you, Edith. And maybe remove your jewelry at your dresser from now on."

"See you, Anthony," she replied. They lingered awkwardly, he nodded again, and with that they both retreated inside their respective homes.

* * *

A/N: Just a short chapter to get us started. This story stems from a prompt that was sent in a PM and I only hope I do it justice. :)... Such lovely fiction happening here lately! I'm admittedly losing faith/interest in Canon, and perhaps Series 5 will rope me back in, but I'm heartbroken about Edith's choices. That said, our Andith community is keeping the pair alive and well, and for that I thank all of you!

Eleanor


	2. Chapter 2

By his thinking, it all started that day. Not the one with the bathroom sink, or the one after when she left a plate of butterscotch biscuits on his step, but the one four days later when he came home to find Edith Crawley smashed up against the front door of Ros' brownstone, as if the three or four inches of molding around it might protect her from the elements. Though their stoops shared a common cast iron railing, Anthony had to shout over the rain so she could hear him.

"Are you alright?" he felt compelled to ask.

Edith jumped and turned at the sound of his voice. "The cleaning ladies have locked me out by mistake. It's fine, I called a locksmith," Edith assured. She smiled at him from beneath the hood of the raincoat she wore, and even then he could see her teeth chattering.

"When is the locksmith due?"

"A few hours," the young thing answered. At three on a November afternoon, that meant after dark. And even though it was practically balmy for the autumn, it wouldn't stay that way for long if one was soaked through.

Still, he was reluctant to bring a young girl into his home. It seemed a little untoward. "And you don't have a spare key?"

Edith arched a brow. "If I did would I be standing here in the rain?"

Anthony smiled, hopeful she wouldn't notice him turn scarlet at the blunder. "I suppose if you were an eccentric."

"I assure you I'm not," she laughed. "Anyway, no use in both of us getting drenched. Best you get inside, Anthony. I'll be in soon enough."

He thought of offering his umbrella and having done with it, and then felt like a terrible wretch. "Get in here before you freeze to death, or get washed away. Come on," he said, fumbling with his own keys. He couldn't remember the last time anyone else stepped foot in his place, but he was committed now.

"I really don't wish to be a bother," Edith tried. It was Anthony's turn to raise a brow.

"You won't be a bother, but I will think you very ridiculous if you insist on standing in this downpour."

Edith ducked her head and hurried over, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. She wore tight-cut trousers that showed how skinny her legs were and little leather loafers that surely couldn't keep her toes warm.

Anthony ushered her inside and shut the door against the rising wind. "Weather's getting worse by the minute. You might have blown away," Anthony muttered, noting how small she seemed shivering beside him.

"I would have been fine, don't exaggerate," she scoffed, pulling her hood back. In the dim light of his foyer, she looked all bright and colorful. He wasn't used to such glittering things in his home.

Her hair was neither blonde nor red, but somewhere between the two depending on the lighting, and her skin, her skin was pale and delicate. She had a bit of a glow beneath her flesh, coloring from the cold or from emotion he couldn't tell, and her eyes were fiery and rich and part of him wished she would stop turning them to her feet out of shyness.

Anthony wordlessly took her coat and draped it over the large, ornamental globe to dry. He turned, confused, when he heard Edith giggle.

"Something funny?" he asked lightly.

She pointed at his work. "Unusual coat rack. Is that a matter of routine for you?"

"Better than letting it drip all over my floors. Anyway, that's the first practical use that thing has seen in its entire sodded existence." He sounded gruff, and defensive. He knew he did. He could be a real ass at times.

But she was laughing again. He noticed then that she was wearing a bit of makeup, a cream blouse and gray cardigan to compliment her navy pants. A bit more put together than last time he saw her, and perhaps not quite as young as he'd originally thought either.

"I seem to be rather wet every time we meet," Edith said, immediately followed by a hiss of embarrassment. She closed her eyes and shook her head, blushing all the way down to her clavicle. It took him a moment to understand, and he eagerly changed the subject.

"Care for a cuppa while you wait?"

Anthony led her to the lounge, urging her to sit close to the fire he had started, before fetching tea.

"Milk and sugar?" he asked, taking up the sofa across from her. Edith shook her head and thanked him when she took the mug from his hands.

"You have a lovely home," she offered, and he realized she would have had plenty of time to notice all the dust built up and the rubbish on his desk and the dated furnishings. She was being polite.

"Yes, well, it gets the job done I suppose." He took his own tea, wondering how to entertain her. "How did you find yourself locked out, by the way? If you don't mind my asking."

"Of course not. I left my bag on the entry table when I went out for a walk, which was my mistake. The cleaning ladies come twice a week, arrived while I was out, and they lock up after, thus leading to your second heroic rescue of me since I moved here." She smiled sheepishly and Anthony felt a bit squeamish at the image of her sweet dimples and downturned eyes.

"I, um, I'm no hero I assure you."

"Well seeing as you've saved me on more than one occasion I beg to differ," she said quickly, and before he could protest she added, "I'm really not helpless, I swear to you. I'm not a complete moron."

"I never would have imagined you were."

"Well you'd be in the minority. My parents," but then she stopped and shook her head. "Never mind." Again, before Anthony could get a word in, she changed the subject. "So what do you do, Anthony?"

He huffed once, breathless from trying to keep up with her. "I, um, I'm a surgeon."

"Oh that's impressive! So you really are a hero," she replied, and he turned red despite himself. A grown man getting sheepish at some teenager's unqualified praise.

"Are you here for school?" he returned, moving the focus away from him as she had done earlier.

To his further bewilderment she scoffed again. "How old do you think I am?"

Anthony stammered, truly panicked now. "I, I don't know. Seventeen, eighteen?"

Edith nodded and sighed. "I usually get sixteen. Makeup helps, I suppose. Anyway, I'm twenty. Hardly a child."

"Hardly an adult either," he snorted, and she had the nerve to look affronted.

"Well how old are you?" she asked.

"Old."

"No doubt," she said sarcastically. "But _how_ old?"

"Old enough to keep a spare key," he teased, and he couldn't decide if he was genuinely irritated or enjoying her company.

Ignoring his dig she said, "You're awfully coy about your age for a man. You're worse than my Aunt Ros."

"How old is your Aunt Ros?"

"Somewhere between thirty-six and forty if you ask her many suitors. According to family record she's forty-seven."

"Well then she's got six on me," he ceded softly, looking down at his tea.

"I'm not here for school. I finished my degree a year ago, in fact, because when you're socially dysfunctional it's rather easy to bury your head in the books. Anyway, I got a job and was rather desperate to leave my parents' home in Yorkshire so I moved here."

"My mistake," he said, and he didn't realize he was grinning at her until she dropped her head to her shoulder and bit her lip.

Anthony cleared his throat, feeling unease bubble up from the pit of his stomach. This young thing made him nervous, and he was never nervous.

"What's your specialty?"

"Beg your pardon?" he asked, feeling clammy and disoriented.

"Sorry, I meant in surgery."

"Oh, um, cardiovascular."

"A heart surgeon," Edith muttered. She looked rather contemplative, then cleared her throat and shifted on the couch. "Your wife must be very proud. What's her name?" Edith pointed limply to a picture on the mantle of Anthony and his bride some twenty years earlier.

"Maude," Anthony answered automatically. He wondered if perhaps… but then Edith sighed. "I haven't met her yet, she must be very busy."

"She's away, in Cornwall," Anthony answered.

"You couldn't join?"

"Work," Anthony said, feeling exceptionally loutish.

Edith smiled. "Busy saving hearts," she joked softly. "And daft neighbors too." She blushed deeply, though Anthony couldn't be sure whether it was from her comment about hearts or a renewed embarrassment about being locked out.

Anthony was aware she was doing all the polite chatter such a situation required, but the more he tried to think of something to say, the more jammed the majority of his thoughts became. He couldn't process beyond the fact that a strange young woman was in his home, asking him questions which he had no desire to answer. Was he really so out of practice socially?

Yes, yes he was.

"Anthony?" Edith said, and he had a sinking feeling she had asked him another question and he hadn't heard.

_Say something you git_, he told himself. But when his mouth opened words failed to produce themselves. He was a surgeon for christ's sake. He could map the complexities of the cardiovascular system on the back of a napkin, and had done once while hiding at a hospital gala. Speaking to anyone other than patients and staff shouldn't be so very difficult.

"I feel kind of impetuous calling you Anthony. Do you mind? Only I don't know your last name or I would call you Doctor," Edith rambled. She was uncomfortable now, it was clear in the way she held herself in, bare feet tucked over each other, elbows in her lap. As if she were trying to make as small a footprint as possible in his natural habitat.

"It's Strallan, my last name," he said, "But I don't mind if you call me Anthony. If you must call me at all."

_Ass!_ Anthony regretted the comment as soon as he'd made it, the words giving a message he hadn't intended at all. And the wound was visible in Edith's small, apologetic grin and eyes that were slightly sadder than they had been a moment before.

"Edith, that's not—"

"I know I'm a nuisance—"

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm sorry—"

They talked over each other for half a second before the most dreadful silence fell between them. Anthony felt flustered and frustrated. He likened the sensation to a toddler learning to communicate and the mouth refusing to cooperate with the brain.

"I'm not a very… likeable man," Anthony tried, then closed his eyes for a minute. His tea had long gone cold and he set it on the table with a loud thump. "What is this new job you got?" he asked, trying desperately to sound less like a complete prick.

Edith looked almost thankful he had changed the subject, and had opened her mouth to answer when her mobile went off. Slipping it from her back pocket, Anthony got a nice view of the soft curve of her rear, and looked away in a huff.

A few one word answers and she hung up. "That's the locksmith, he's outside."

They said nothing else as she all but ran to gather her coat and the loafers she had removed. The little thing was practically frantic, sharpening the guilt creeping up Anthony's spine. She was already halfway out the door and struggling with one arm of her coat when she gave a hurried thanks.

"Edith, don't think," Anthony began as she rushed down the steps. He caught a glimpse of the impatient locksmith, a large young man who looked entirely normal and who Anthony had a sudden and deep distrust of.

She was at the bottom step, waiting for him to finish, blinking up into the rain. When he failed to finish his thought, Edith shrugged. "Good night, Anthony, thank you."

Anthony watched Edith explain the problem to the locksmith, swearing it was her home. He had half a mind to accompany her, a young woman dealing with a stranger who could easily overpower her.

But then Anthony wondered if anyone could overpower that girl if they dared try. Unsure, and ever the coward, Anthony ducked back into his house and shut the door. That he found himself dragging one of the dining room chairs to the front window, surreptitiously listening for any trouble and waiting for the locksmith's van to leave, Anthony decided not to overanalyze.

His surveillance proved silly in time. In a matter of twenty minutes, Anthony would see the van go, and would still feel compelled to go check on her. The awkward, stilted conversation they would have led to mutual apologies, a blushing silence, and the dawning of something new and unexpected and as wholly unwelcome as it was unavoidable.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for your reviews and follows! This one is a little different for our pair. I'm thinking of Anthony in the first season, when he was a bit awkward and dumbstruck (and frankly idiotic about our poor Edith and her attentions.) He let Mary sway his attention at the first dinner, he asked her awkwardly for the first ride and Edith had to take the initiative to say she would go, he literally ran from the garden party. Anthony is a dear, but a touch bumbling I'd say.

And Maude remains a mystery for now. :) Bear with me, and thanks for reading and reviewing! Also, I'm out of the country for three weeks starting Thursday, so if I don't post, not to worry-I haven't abandoned the story.

Always,  
Eleanor


	3. Chapter 3

Edith felt a small hint of it the first time she'd seen him, but when she opened her front door twenty minutes after the locksmith had left to find Anthony looking sheepish and chastened, the little flicker of feeling she had fanned without warning into a very real, very visceral flame.

"I, uh, I came to check on you," Anthony mumbled, and Edith frowned.

"Check on me? I'm clearly in the house now, locksmith's gone. Were you afraid I'd burn the place down?" she laughed, but there was an edge in the sound. She'd been hurt, his coldness far more upsetting to her than it should have been after only an hour's total acquaintance.

"I'm not good at people," Anthony admitted. "I don't have friends, I'm a frightful ass." He paused, clearly searching for some more meaningful apology.

"Are you waiting for a counter-argument?" Edith finally said. But then he smiled, a crooked boyish thing, and she laughed, and there was no real turning back for either one of them.

"Do you want to come in? I was going to make some dinner."

"Are you allowed to use the stove without adult supervision?" he teased, stepping into the entry as Edith shut the door behind him.

"Well now you're here so either way it doesn't matter," Edith said. "Are you allergic to chicken and potatoes?"

"No."

"Pity, I'll have to try something else next time," she muttered coolly, wondering where her bravado had come from. But for the first time in her life, Edith wasn't ill at ease, or desperate to be alone. Anthony was a strange and awkward as she and she found comfort in his well-worn sweaters and his wary sort of gentility. He wasn't good at showing it, but Anthony was a dear.

_And married,_ she thought,_ Mustn't forget that._

"The, uh, the kitchen is through here if you'd like to sit," Edith offered, leading the man through her aunt's home.

Anthony sat at the small table in the breakfast nook stiffly, looking as unsure as Edith felt about their burgeoning relationship. _Friendship_, she thought was a better word. He folded his hands in his lap like a little boy, and something in the gesture tugged at her. She smiled and moved for the fridge.

"I really hate to intrude," he said suddenly, standing up in a rush and bumping the table so that it wobbled precariously for a moment.

"You're not intruding," she said gently. "I won't keep you, but if we're both on our own for supper I'm happy to share with you."

Anthony was almost seated when he straightened again and asked, "Can I help with anything?"

"Sit down," she instructed, bringing him a cutting board and a knife. "Why don't you chop up the aubergines and courgettes. Okay?"

Anthony nodded before saying quietly, "Have you a scalpel? I might be more capable with that."

Edith chuckled, and relaxed just a little as they went about their various tasks in silence.

"You mentioned you were starting a job," Anthony said after a while. Edith smiled to herself when she saw how careful he was to make all the vegetables perfectly even.

"Yes, I'm working with children and art, which is fabulous. It's just a short-term position, until the grant money runs out, but I studied art in school, and I've always flirted with the idea of teaching, so it is perfect while I sort out my next move."

"I used to think I'd like to be a teacher," Anthony mused, scooping up the vegetables and dropping them in the ceramic dish Edith set before him.

"What happened?"

"My father thought I should be a surgeon," he said simply. "And so I was a surgeon. I do like it, though. Hearts are strange things. And the entire map of veins and arteries, it's remarkable what bodies can do."

Edith smiled, but just as he seemed to be warming to her Anthony looked up in alarm and mumbled an unnecessary apology.

"My sister wanted to be a doctor," Edith offered, sprinkling olive oil over the aubergines and putting them in the oven beside the chicken and potatoes already roasting. "But then she married young, and they got pregnant right away, and then that was it."

"This the sister whose ring you wear?"

Edith nodded. "Sybil. She was wonderful. Would have been an excellent mother, but she suffered an embolism during labor. I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn't you?" she asked. Before Anthony could answer Edith added, "I'm sorry, I try not to bring her up because I know it makes people uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," he said quickly. "But you tend not to let me speak before you've finished one thought and move on to another."

Edith blushed, deeply embarrassed. Had she annoyed him? "I'm sorry, I know. It drives my older sister Mary crazy."

"No, no, I don't mind it," Anthony mumbled.

"Do you have children?" Edith asked, pulling a bottle of white from the fridge.

"No, Maude never wanted, and then," Anthony began. He trailed off as Edith struggled with the wine key and moved beside her, removing both the bottle and the opener from her hands.

"I could have done that," she said flatly.

"I've no doubt," he said, and a hint of a smile pulled at his lips.

"Why do you pretend to be so grumpy?" she asked, her question abrupt but, she felt, necessary.

Anthony looked at her with his eyebrows raised, and Edith only returned the expression.

"I'm not very talented socially. I don't mean to appear grumpy, I'm just not very articulate," he explained.

"I'm a complete social reject," Edith announced plainly. "We should get along just fine."

He laughed, a quiet sort of chuff that made her inordinately pleased with herself. She poured the wine, gestured for him to sit, and then silence fell again.

"I really am sorry, about earlier," Anthony finally admitted. "I didn't mean to be such an ass. It's just, I'm not used to company I guess."

"I wasn't offended, Anthony. I tend to be in the way, I'm used to it."

"But you weren't in the way, not at all."

"Well then there's nothing more to be said," Edith suggested with a shrug.

They both smiled, a shy and struggling sort of thing. He really was handsome, there was no use denying that. And there was something, _something_, Edith couldn't quite name that made his presence soothing. Perhaps she was just lonely, or perhaps it was simply a respite from her prodding family that failed to understand her.

Whatever it was, Edith enjoyed Anthony Strallan very much, and in an incredibly ungenerous thought, Edith secretly hoped his wife was a total and unmitigated cow.

Over the remainder of cooking, eating, and clearing dinner, Edith and Anthony spoke without any more awful silences. She did most of the talking, of course, but Edith didn't mind. Each quiet laugh she earned, or small grin, or kind response made her feel certain they were going to be great friends.

She and Anthony liked the same books too. That was the discovery of the night. She stood there with him in her aunt's study, perusing the shelves and comparing reading lists. They agreed that Daisy Buchannan was among the most selfish characters in all literature, which led to an agreement that Scott and Zelda were the most beautifully tragic burnout in romantic history. They both enjoyed modern literature, though neither read as much as they ought, "Because of course it's too enjoyable reading your favorites over and over," Edith said.

"Exactly," Anthony agreed. And when silence fell between them again it wasn't awful, but wonderfully, strangely unbearable. Edith had never experienced such a sensation before in her life. As if the air between them was suddenly tangible and the earth's spin wobbled just a little.

"Would you like the tour?" she asked loudly, so much so that she and Anthony both jumped.

Anthony smiled, a clear yes forming on his lips. Then all at once something fell over him, his shoulders drooped a fraction more, the curve of his lips somehow sad though still a grin.

"I should probably go home. I've taken up far too much of your evening as it is."

Edith felt the dull ache of disappointment in her stomach, but tried to reason with herself. "Yes, alright," she managed, reluctantly leading him to the door.

"I'll see you," Anthony said with a strained sort of shrug. It seemed neither really knew what to say.

"I suppose you will, yes," though she couldn't be sure when and it bothered her immensely.

At the step he lingered a moment, shifting his weight like a child and fisting his hands in his trouser pockets. "Thank you for dinner, it was delicious."

Edith almost said, _Doesn't Maude cook for you?_ But decided against mentioning the elephant in the room. It made her sad, and she didn't know why, and to think on it made her head hurt. So instead she said, "Anytime."

Anthony nodded, and didn't say goodbye. He left without another word and shut the door behind him. Edith stood stock-still and held her breath until she heard the soft thud of his own door closing. Through the shared wall she heard muted footsteps falling away, and she guessed he was in the lounge she'd seen earlier.

Edith was awake into the small hours of the morning despite herself, driven by a sort of needy curiosity. She heard, while trying very hard not to, every mild thump and clang and rattle that came from Anthony's half of their duplex.

The next day she busied herself with laundry and painted her nails. She read for a while but was too restless to really focus. It might have been easier to find distraction with Ros home, or with work to keep her busy, but she didn't start for another week. She made it all the way until two in the afternoon before deciding to walk to the market for the sake of something to do.

Edith was surprised at how _not_ surprised she was to stumble across Anthony in the biscuit aisle. He was, to her delight, wearing green scrubs and a sweater, and she felt as if she caught him in his pajamas. His basket was filled with brown bread and butter, a couple frozen dinners, Clubs, and a small bag of porridge.

"You're a doctor. Shouldn't you know better than to eat like this?" she asked, approaching him from behind. He startled a bit and then blushed, though she couldn't be sure if it was her criticism or her presence that caused it. He set down the chocolate biscuits he was holding with a great deal of guilt in his posture.

"Doctors never take their own advice, and they're the worst patients," he said softly.

Edith shrugged. "Come on, I can't in good conscience let you eat this." Pulling on his arm she happily led him around, putting things in his basket as she came across them. She put the frozen dinners back too.

"I won't cook," Anthony confessed. "I mean, I'm capable but I know I won't take the time."

"I'll cook. You'll eat the leftovers," she said.

Never in her life had Edith been so bold or forward with someone, let alone a man whom she barely knew. But there was something about him, a certain helplessness that allowed her to assume the role of the confident party.

In a fleeting thought, she wondered if his wife might come home and be shocked to find another woman's cooking in the fridge, but Edith decided it was all perfectly neighborly and let it go. _Out of sight, out of mind_ was unfortunately convenient, she found.

"Did you walk?" Anthony asked as they were checking out.

"Of course. I haven't a car."

"Well I came straight from the hospital, so I have mine."

It all seemed quite natural, shopping together and heading back from the market. She rummaged around his kitchen, tutting at the state of his fridge and the sad amount of processed foods in his press.

He still seemed uneasy with her in his space, and she filed that thought away for later when she could really chew on it. And when dinner was ready he insisted she share it.

Thus began a strange but pleasant little ritual, wherein Edith slowly—painfully slowly, if she were honest—forced Anthony to grow used to her, and perhaps even enjoy her company. They ate together every night of the next six, and on the seventh Anthony was on-call and so was at hospital.

That same night Aunt Rosamund arrived home from Italy, and in one conversation changed Edith's whole perception of her neighbors the Strallans, throwing her little world for quite the loop.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I know this one is a bit strange, but our pair isn't always the most talented for smooth conversation and all that.

Also, I came back from holiday to SO many lovely updates. I'm sorry I've been absent and haven't reviewed, but I am catching up, and am loving our community more than ever!

Always,  
Eleanor


	4. Chapter 4

"Married? Anthony Strallan?" Rosamund laughed skeptically. She frowned at Edith over her shoulder as she pulled the tea from the cupboard.

"Isn't he?" Edith asked, confused and, if she was being honest, hopeful. She had dropped his name casually, explaining the sink and the locksmith, and how he had helped. Edith didn't exactly say that she had eaten with him every night that week. She had mentioned not meeting his wife, though, and that had made Ros scoff.

"Maude Strallan hasn't stepped foot in that house in ten years. It was the strangest thing, Edith," Ros said, sitting across from her niece, who recognized the glint in her eye that promised a juicy story. "One day they were the perfect couple, all blonde hair and smiles and how-do-you-dos and everything, and the next she was gone. Her little Merc, which he bought her, was loaded up and then it pulled down the drive, and that was that."

"She just left him? Just out of the blue like that?"

"I used to hear her yelling at him, could never make out the words mind, just her shrill voice clearly berating him. I got the impression the poor man would have set himself on fire to make her happy, and it was just never enough."

"That's awful," Edith said, her tone admonishing as she tried to fight the very real heartache approaching. "No wonder he can be a bit cranky at times."

"Cranky? Anthony Strallan? Edith, he's a lamb."

Edith frowned. "Not to me."

Rosamund chewed on that a moment. "Perhaps he's just a bit standoffish now. He used to be, oh how do I describe it. He was like this gentle giant. I swear to you, Edith, children and animals flocked to him like some sort of fairytale."

"I can picture that, actually," Edith admitted, fidgeting with the spoon in the honeypot.

"He was always quiet, Maude did all the talking. She and I used to have tea together once or twice a week, especially when Duke was out of town on business. She was beautiful, but I had the feeling she was sort of... manic, and Anthony just tried to keep up with her."

"What happened after she left? What did he do?"

Rosamund dropped her head to one side with a cunning little expression. "I have never seen you so intrigued by gossip before. Usually you glaze over and stare at the wall."

"Usually you're gossiping with Mama about Mary's society friends and I couldn't care less," Edith shrugged, trying to convey total indifference.

"But you 'care' about Dr. Strallan?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't even know him," Edith muttered coolly, running a finger along the pattern on her flannel pajama bottoms.

"Well, he went into hiding sort of after she was gone. He never goes anywhere, the postman complains that he never checks the box, his newspapers stacked up until they stopped coming altogether. I haven't seen a single visitor in all these years. I tried, for a time, to make sure he was alright and he always rebuffed me, saying she'd be back. Then he just quit responding altogether. He's still the same, sweet man I'd wager. He's just…broken."

"Do you think he really believes she's coming back?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think she will?"

"The last I heard from Maude, she was buying a hotel with a fair sum of Anthony's money in Cornwall, and was curiously close with the manager—some young, Australian bloke."

"Poor Anthony."

"Indeed," Ros agreed, leaning back in her chair and watching Edith studiously. She brought a finger up to her lips, eyes narrowed, and Edith flinched when she noticed her aunt's gaze.

"What?"

"He's twice your age, Edie."

Edith blanched, having barely begun to think of him that way herself. "That's neither here nor—"

"Ah, well, my Duke was twenty years older than me as well. Only he didn't have longevity on his side."

"Aunt Rosamund, if you think—"

"I can see where you'd be good for each other. You for him, especially. But keep your feet on the ground, alright? He's wounded, and sometimes the healing can be worse than the injury."

"Auntie!" Edith hissed, face burning with embarrassment.

Rosamund just shrugged. "My darling girl, I don't pretend to know much, but I know people, and you are painfully transparent."

"The man seems thoroughly annoyed by my general presence. I've had to force myself on him just so he'd eat a meal. The first time I met him I had him fixing my sink, and every time we've spoken he's been unpredictable and ornery and snappish and then he smiles and," Edith listed in frustration. Then she stopped herself short before going into the more embarrassing details of her evenings with Dr. Strallan.

Rosamund lifted and dropped one shoulder, smirking. "Sounds like he's been pulling your hair at the playground."

"I'm going to bed," Edith grumbled, confused and unwilling at such an hour to delve into the strange details of her acquaintance with the man next door.

"Won't you have some tea?" Rosamund asked innocently.

"No thank you."

"Did he mention what hospital he works at?" Rosamund called as Edith moved to the hall. She stopped, turning back to her positively glowing aunt and waited. "Why, Wellington of course."

"Of course," Edith sighed, exasperated and thrilled and terrified all at once.

She went to bed, trying not to think about Anthony, or his marital status, or the strange, buoyant thing that was bubbling up within her. Or that tomorrow was Monday, and the first day of her new job using art as therapy for sick children, at Wellington.

She failed miserably, of course. And when Anthony got home at two in the morning Edith heard the faint sounds of his arrival. It took her all of three minutes to make up her mind.

"Edith, for god's sake, it's the middle of the night," Anthony huffed, sounding annoyed but still pulling her into his home by her elbow. "What on earth's wrong? What's happened?"

She suddenly felt very foolish, and hugely presumptuous. "I just, I was up and I heard you come home." His hands were firmly on his hips, his brow furrowed. What she would have seen as irritated before she suddenly saw as defensive, and she couldn't bring herself to be afraid of him any longer. "It's late," she added dumbly.

"Like I said," he nodded. But he wasn't questioning her presence. Not really. And he wasn't pushing her out the door.

"You got called in to work? Is everything okay?"

Anthony let his hands fall. "It was a trying night. Thank you for asking."

Edith wondered how long it had been since someone asked him about his day. He looked tired, but his scrubs showed off his long, trim frame and the blonde hair on his arms, a triangle of skin below his neck his sweaters usually covered, and Edith found herself somewhat in awe of his entire visage.

"I, I don't mean to keep you up," she said softly.

"I won't be able to sleep for a while. Would you like some tea?"

She nodded.

His kitchen was a familiar place by now, and as she watched him start the kettle and prepare the mugs she realized how much more comfortable she felt after Ros' little informational session. It was his space, and his alone, and she no longer felt like an intruder in another woman's home.

"I'm copping out and using bags. I hope you don't mind," he said quietly, his back still to her.

"No I don't mind. Why don't you sit and I'll do this?" she asked, rising and moving behind him. Anthony flinched when she lightly touched his arm to get his attention. He muttered a thanks before conceding and dropping heavily in to the breakfast nook.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Hmm?"

"About your night? You seem a bit worn out."

Anthony stared at her then, his eyes wide and full of question. She just waited for him to make up his mind, refusing to look away. They both jumped when the kettle went off.

"You seem," Anthony mused as Edith brought their mugs and sat across from him, but then he just shook his head. "I don't know. Never mind."

Edith blew into her tea. She had a mind to ask why he pretended to be married, but decided she'd rather him choose to tell her of his own volition. She waited, hoping he'd initiate some conversation but perfectly content with the silence as well. She was suddenly fascinated by him, by every aspect of his life. He was a curiosity, his home a museum paying homage to a past life.

"I nearly lost a patient tonight. That's why I got called in," Anthony said after a while.

Edith nodded.

"She, well she's a complete doll really. Charlotte, she's four. She was born with a ventricular septal defect, which caused pulmonary hypertension and delayed her growth, and while we waited for her to get strong enough for surgery she developed endocarditis."

"In layman's terms, Doctor," Edith said gently.

Anthony cracked a small, apologetic smile. "She had a hole in her heart. That caused high blood pressure and lung problems, and later an infection, which nearly killed her. Two weeks ago we finally operated to fix the hole, and tonight her blood pressure spiked dramatically, and so they called me."

"Is she alright?"

Anthony heaved a sighed and leaned back in his chair, the overhead light catching the gold in his hair and the length of his blonde lashes. Then he smiled, and Edith's belly tightened. "She's fine. Had a mild kidney infection is all, just her body getting tired after all the trauma. She'll recover, though. And her heart is looking perfect."

"I'm glad she'll be alright," Edith said, sharing his grin. He was more relaxed now, and Edith realized she'd been living for these moments, when he let his guard down for a moment and talked to her. "Quite lovely, that."

"What is?" he asked.

"That you fixed a hole in her heart. It's rather poetic."

Anthony gave that shy chuff of approval Edith was so fond of and nodded. "Perhaps if it wasn't so literal it might be."

Silence fell again, and Anthony didn't try to hide the quizzical way he was staring at Edith. She wasn't bothered by it as much anymore, and wondered if perhaps he found her as perplexing as she did him. And maybe that's why they kept doing this—all awkwardness and brevity and miscommunication, but still they pushed on. Maybe that's why she felt drawn to him, curious about what he was hiding beneath his scowls and clipped conversations.

There was something there, something real and full of potential and promise. Of that Edith was certain. The awareness made her nervous to the core but she fought against her fear, against the childish urge to hide away from him.

"You must be exhausted," he said, distracting Edith from her stewing.

"Oh, well, not as much as you. I've been quite the insomniac lately, actually."

"I never sleep. Not well anyway."

"Why?"

Anthony looked gravely serious, released a long breath between his lips, and said, "I don't know. Maybe it's this bloody nuisance of a neighbor just moved in. Insisting on fattening me up, always coming at odd hours."

Edith giggled—a real, girlish, high-pitched giggle that probably should have embarrassed her—and stood. "I can take a hint good doctor. I need to get to bed myself."

A look of disappointment flickered over Anthony's features and then he schooled it into something more neutral. "Very well, Miss Crawley."

He saw her to the door, and then neither really knew what to say.

"You start your new job tomorrow, yeah?" Anthony asked suddenly.

Edith blushed and nodded, not wishing to tell him more just then. Typical of his antisocial nature he didn't ask for any details. He seemed stuck again, at a loss about what to do, so Edith simply smiled and bid him goodnight.

She was rounding the railing at the bottom step when Anthony called quietly, "Oh, Edith?"

"Hmm?"

"Please tell me you've left the door unlocked."

Edith laughed, and then laughed harder at how pleased he looked with his own joke. She was smiling, too, when she woke up the next morning.

* * *

A/N: Hello lovely readers! So that's what's up with Maude. I hope this story isn't too out of character. As I said before, 1st season Anthony was an absolute dear, but he made a few mistakes and they had a bit of a fumbling beginning. That's what I'm going for.

I'm still catching up on stories, but there is so much wonderful fiction and so little time! Thank you for continuing to read and review, and more so for keeping Andith alive and well far better than Julian Fellowes ever did.

All my best,  
Eleanor


	5. Chapter 5

Being a surgeon would not have been Anthony's first choice of careers, but his father had been so adamant, and his mother so proud, that he acquiesced. Never one to underperform, Anthony put his whole self into his studies and then his practice, and became the best surgeon he could. Top of his class, all the best residencies and such, he was certainly a success. The golden boy of heart medicine and the absolute center of his parents' focus.

It was absolutely exhausting.

Perhaps that's why he married Maude. Wild, and beautiful, and utterly wrong for him, Anthony had adored her from the start. She was a few years older, had grown up in a privileged family and was accustomed to being doted upon. She didn't care much for his parents, and when he was more inclined to stay at home and study or read she would insist on taking him out for some adventure, dancing or drinking or god knows what. She was a rebellion, really, against his own dutiful tendencies, and for a long while he found it terribly refreshing.

When Anthony got the job at Wellington he was only thirty, and even then Maude had started to think him 'old' and 'tired.' He wanted children and a little house and she wanted a spray tan and holidays in Rio and fashionable parties with the snobbish friends of hers, all wasters by Anthony's thinking. Anthony was utterly lost by all of it, but tried to keep up for her sake.

And then one day she was gone. He was 31, they'd been married nearly ten years, and she was out of his life just like that. He put money in her account for a long while, feeling it meant she needed him, wanted him still. When she closed her account and severed all contact, he figured time was the key, and she would be back when she'd had her fill of whatever she was doing. He didn't change anything she'd done to the house (disinterested as she had been in keeping home, it wasn't much) and he focused again on the only other part of his identity. He was a surgeon, and husband to Maude Strallan. Without all that he would surely be lost.

The hospital became his new home, the place where he was sure and authoritative. At work he felt in control, decisive, and mostly he felt absorbed to the point of distraction. With patients he was the knowledgeable and experienced Dr. Strallan. At his home was simply alone, neither by choice nor design, and there was little he felt he could do.

No, the hospital was where he was comfortable, sure, relaxed.

Which is precisely why he nearly swallowed his tongue when he left little Charlotte's room on the Children's ward to see Edith Crawley at the far end of the hall, a trolley of art supplies and things, a supervisor trailing her whom he vaguely recognized as one of the more seasoned hospital staff.

Edith turned, her eyes catching his, and she smiled just briefly (and oh so brightly) before ducking into one of the rooms. Anthony stood stock still, completely thrown by the presence of his pretty little neighbor and her dimples.

Anthony pretended to be busy by the nurse's station, looking over charts that he had no business with, checking and rechecking Charlotte's latest tests, until Edith emerged from the room. Her entrance in the hall was announced by a fit of giggles and a child calling 'Thank you Miss Edith' and Anthony felt completely stumped by what to do next.

"Were you waiting for me?" Edith asked, approaching him without hesitation.

"You don't seem at all surprised to see me," Anthony whispered. This was, after all, a private conversation and the nurses had ears and mouths all over the hospital.

Edith smiled softly. "Why didn't you tell me you worked here?"

"You didn't ask," he said, and wondered if he wasn't being mildly flirtatious. "I didn't know _you_ worked here."

"You didn't ask," Edith countered. Anthony realized he was glaring at her, despite the inexplicable sort of giddiness he felt fluttering in his chest. He worked to soften his features, not wishing his surprise and confusion to come across as annoyance again. Edith watched him intently as he struggled.

"You're a strange man, Anthony. I can't figure you out."

"Who asked you to?" he replied quickly, and his heart withered a little when he saw Edith's boldness fall away and her shoulders drop and her smile fade.

"Fair enough, Doctor. I should get to work anyway. First day on the job and all."

But when Edith turned, he reached out and caught her arm without consciously deciding to do so. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound… Look, don't just," he tried.

Edith was smiling again. "I'm here doing arts and crafts with children, in conjunction with the counseling department. We're trying to raise their spirits, but also help them work through some of their tougher emotions by expression through art."

Anthony lifted his eyebrows, interested but wondering if she had a point.

She laughed and leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm just wondering, would some crayons and construction paper possibly help you form a sentence?"

Anthony laughed, really laughed, and it felt like stretching something long dormant and well forgotten. "You're awfully patient with me," he muttered, picking up on the faint scent of Edith's perfume and glancing to her neck as if he might see lingering traces of the spray.

"Anthony, I," Edith said, her tone suddenly different, deeper and more downy. "Well, I'm no good at talking either. Really I'm not. I've never had friends and I'm a complete loner. So maybe we can just... be patient with each other?"

"I refuse to believe you could ever be quiet for more than five minutes put together," he teased, knowing the only reason Edith did so much talking was because he did so little.

"Yes, well, it's easy to be quiet when there's no one around to listen," she mumbled, looking down at her feet. She wore little nude leather flats that were just a shade darker than her own skin, and were small enough to give a peak at what a woman on the telly had once referred to as 'toe cleavage.' He was fascinated by the little appendages, at how smooth they looked, how narrow and dainty.

"Anthony?"

"Hmm?"

She was watching him again, and when he dragged his gaze back he met her great brown eyes. Only… "Your eyes aren't exactly brown, are they? I mean they are, but there's a great deal of gold and amber in them, like fire opal or granite or something."

He'd said it without thinking, without considering how very ridiculous he would seem gushing over her eyes like some banal college poet trying to get a girl.

Edith flushed brilliantly. "I think that's the most you've said to me altogether."

"Well, maybe if we do some finger painting I might actually hold an intelligible conversation with you," he huffed, feeling clammy and awkward. And very, very foolish.

Edith giggled again and folded her arms across herself before asking, "Is that something you want to do? Have a conversation I mean? That is, obviously we're having a conversation, I just meant, would you consider," she took a frustrated breath and shook her head.

"Would coloring help?"

She burst a laugh, a shaky thing, and ran a hand through her hair. "I've got a year here, that's how long the grant pays. Perhaps by then we'll have had a normal chat."

"You surprised me," Anthony said abruptly. "This is probably the last place on earth I'd expect to run into you. Caught me completely off guard. You, you keep doing that."

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be, I just mean…"

"I know what you mean," Edith murmured, and then she reached out and laid a hand against Anthony's forearm where it rested against the nurse's counter. As quickly as she'd done it, Edith took her hand away again, and he was so startled by the contact he couldn't think of a thing to say or do.

"I really should get back. I have lots more kiddos to visit today, and I'm still learning the layout. I got helplessly lost trying to find the cafeteria, and the nurses don't seem terribly fond of my getting in their way," she rambled, taking a few steps toward her trolley again. The supervisor emerged from the same room she had been in, taking notes on a clipboard.

"You, you haven't yet found the cafeteria?"

"No."

"I could show you tomorrow. We could have lunch, if you wanted."

"Yes, alright," she agreed.

"Edith?"

"Hmm?"

She was halfway down the hall by then, and Anthony trotted to her quickly, ignoring the surreptitious stare of Nurse Halloway. "Would you like a ride home?"

"Oh! If it's not too much trouble that would be lovely."

"Well, you're a bit out of my way but I don't really mind."

The supervisor, who Anthony now thought might be called Grayer or Gregson or something, eyed him for a moment before clearing his throat and calling, "Miss Crawley, if you'd like to continue?"

"Of course," she said to the man. Looking back over her shoulder she smiled at Anthony. "I'm done at five. Does that work?"

"Of course," he managed. "Of course."

He watched her retreat down the hall, nodding and comparing notes with the man who was, presumably, her boss from Counseling and Family Services. He felt a strange sort of protectiveness over her then, but dismissed it quickly.

The rest of his day Anthony was distracted and irritable. Everything was different, suddenly. Here in the place that was so very _his_, Edith had infiltrated just as she had done his home. Where he used to enjoy a comfortable detachment, a clinical existence, he now found himself hoping to see her, wondering where she might be in relation to him, what colorful thing she might be creating.

He did his rounds quickly, too discomfited to give his usual over-attention. The doctors and medical students he oversaw all looked at him strangely, asked if he was well. The serious, quiet, and ultimately dull Dr. Strallan was suddenly muttering to himself and even blushing, and everyone seemed to give him a wide berth as if he might combust.

It didn't even occur to Anthony until 4:30 that he had not given Edith a meeting point or his pager or mobile numbers. The hospital was huge, and how were they to find each other? Like needles in a haystack, he thought. But at 5:00 she was there, inexplicably outside his office, waiting with her coat folded over her arm and a smear of blue paint just beneath her left ear.

"Hallo," she sighed, waiting as he got over his shock and finished turning out his light and locking the door.

"Good evening, Miss Crawley. How did your first day go?"

"Oh, quite well I think. I'm dubiously qualified for this job, but I get to make popsicle stick houses and paint water colors of ponies and chat with children all day. It's marvelous.

Anthony smiled, listening happily as he led her to the staff garage and she told him of all the families she met and the procedures she followed with each visit and how she hoped she was making a difference.

She'd hardly stopped talking the whole trip home, but fell silent when he pulled into his drive and cut the engine.

"I don't really keep regular hours at the hospital," Anthony said. "I mean I have my daily rounds and my non-emergency surgeries are always scheduled for Thursdays and Fridays, but I, I'm not always there at the same time."

Edith just looked at him, waiting for the point.

"But I, I could be. If you'd like to avoid the nightmare that is public transportation, I could easily be more, more consistent."

"You needn't rearrange your life for me," Edith said.

"Don't demure. Just accept the offer." Again he sounded short with her, but he hadn't meant to. He was terrified, really, that she would loathe to be so much in his presence.

"Fine," she said, not a hint of dismay in her voice. "You may be my personal chauffer. I work nine to five. Does that suit?"

"Very well, and if there's ever an emergency," he began, glancing sideways at her.

"You'll let me know and I'll get myself to work like a real grownup," she finished, a challenging little smirk on her lips. "Can I make you dinner in exchange?"

Anthony finally turned from the steering wheel to face her. "You don't have to."

"But may I?"

Anthony shrugged, then nodded, trying to avoid looking so totally eager for her company. And he was, wasn't he? Eager for her company? When had that happened? Anthony had grown accustomed to his solitude, living like a guest in his own home, in Maude Strallan's home. It was a shock to his system, wanting to bring Edith back and listen to her shy, nervous rambling.

Inside Edith opened his fridge, rummaging through the shelves and pulling the odd ingredient. When she was relaxed and focused she moved with much more grace than when she was self-conscious and under scrutiny. Her limbs were long but her frame petite. She was round though, soft, not bony and hard and sharp as Maude had been. She was wearing gray pants and a rose colored top and a black sweater, and he wondered if her warmth could be felt through the thin layers.

Anthony admired her for half a moment, envisioning all sorts of things he hadn't thought of in years, and cleared his throat.

"I'm going to go shower, if that's, if you don't mind," Anthony said.

Edith didn't even look up. "No, of course not. Go get comfortable, I know what I'm doing here."

Anthony, who wanted to crawl under a rock and could barely acknowledged the fact to himself, took a shower a fair amount colder in temperature than he had in years.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for your lovely reviews and for continuing to read. Hopefully this chapter gave a bit more insight into Anthony's side of things.

I'm not on Tumblr so I didn't realize the Highclere awards were in full swing. I am SO surprised and honored that I was nominated at all, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. I feel like our Ship is sort of the red-headed step child of the DA Community, but we certainly take care of each other, don't we? I love it, and am so glad to be part of such a warm and talented community of writers. You're fabulous.


	6. Chapter 6

The whole damned thing was impossible, that's what Anthony ultimately decided. For one thing, Edith was practically a child—albeit a bright, educated, grounded, beautiful one. Still, she was off limits completely for a number of reasons. And anyway, there was still Maude.

Anthony slammed his closet door a bit harder than intended at that thought. For years, _years_, Anthony had remained loyal to Maude. He never once questioned it either. He had made a vow to her that he intended to keep, and one day she would come back and expect him to fulfill all those promises. Forget that she had completely abandoned _her_ vows, he wasn't the sort to let go of his responsibilities.

No matter how badly he wanted to.

And he hadn't wanted to, ever, at all, until Edith came along.

By the time Anthony had dressed, he had made up his mind. Edith would have to go. She needed to be given boundaries, reminded that he had a wife (in a manner of speaking) and that she was not a welcome presence in his life. _It must be done_, he kept telling himself.

When Anthony came back downstairs he heard music coming from his kitchen. Watching from the darkened hall, he found Edith bobbing and rocking to her iPhone. Otis Redding, from the sounds of it. Anthony couldn't be sure as he was rather fixated on her movements, on the way she seemed incapable to stop her hips from swaying or her shoulders from rolling despite her efforts.

"What are we listening to?" Anthony asked, causing Edith to jump and drop the wooden spoon she'd been holding.

"God, you scared me."

"Sorry."

Edith blushed as she picked up the spoon and turned down the music. "Your house was a bit too quiet without you to chat with so I, um, I put on my music. I hope you don't mind. It's, it's a playlist with Otis Redding mostly, and some Al Green and others."

Anthony began to form the words, _Edith, I think you should go_. Instead he found himself smiling at her, at the way she checked on the various dishes she was making. Then he heard himself saying, "I have something you might appreciate, if dinner is alright to sit for a minute."

Edith perked up, curiosity proving too difficult to ignore. "Chicken is baking, stuffing is simmering, veggies are steaming. We should be alright for a bit."

It felt strange, leading her through to the back of his house, where the den waited in darkness. Opening the door, he realized now how terribly dated it must look—two old plaid couches, a burgundy and green wallpaper that had been quite trendy ten or fifteen years ago, glass lamps that were neither new nor antique.

The built-ins, stained a dark chestnut, took up the entire left wall and housed, in addition to hundreds of books, a bulky old television set and his CD player. It was large, and held 100 discs at a time, a technology that was upmarket when he'd bought it so many years ago. Now it looked like a relic from the near-past, like so much in this vacant house of his.

"When's the last time you used this thing?" Edith asked, brushing her fingers over the shelf and wiping the dust from her hands as she watched him turn it on.

"Oh, it's been a while. It got plenty of use back in its heyday though. I threw out most of the discs, awful stuff that my… Well anyway, this section is all mine," he said, turning the nob that rotated the disc holder.

"Anthony, there' s vintage, and then there's just dated. I can't remember the last time I used a CD player," Edith teased, leaning close to try and get a peek at what he was playing.

"Well, my technology and myself may be dated, but my music is decidedly vintage," he said. He pulled a stack of discs for her to look through but left one in the slot and hit play.

"You like Otis Redding?" Edith asked with a grin as the music started.

"I can't imagine who wouldn't," was Anthony's reply, though inwardly he couldn't believe his luck to have such a small thing in common with her. _Shake_ was the first song that came on, fast-tempo and meaningless lyrics. Edith sang along absently as she looked through his collection.

"Etta James, Ray Charles, James Brown," she mumbled to herself, nodding in approval. "Oh, _Slippin' and Slidin' _is one of my favorites." Looking up she beamed at him, and Anthony felt sick all over again.

He found her attractive, sure, because he was a living, breathing man and she was _stunning_. But he felt something more, something deeper and sadder and needier. Anthony could have real feelings for the girl, and he was so out of practice with the notion he hardly knew what to do with it, like an old man given a pogo stick and told to jump as he did as a boy.

And anyway, what right had he to think of Edith Crawley at all? Surely she wouldn't welcome…

Except she was putting the discs back on the shelf and reaching for Anthony's hands. She had almost begun dancing to the cheery little song when it ended, and the next was quite different in mood and tenor. _The Glory of Love_, with Redding's soulful crooning had the perfect kind of minimal piano and sparse guitar that called for swaying more than dancing, and Anthony knew he was in trouble.

Edith seemed to hesitate, dropping one of his hands immediately. He thought given the slower song she might change her mind altogether, but instead she just started rocking foot to foot. She was waiting, he realized, for him to take the lead.

So he did. As if he had any choice in the matter at all.

Anthony's right hand slid around her waist to her lower back and his left took a firmer hold of Edith's palm. _Like a goddam pogo stick_, he thought, even has his feet began shuffling, moving them in a slow and deliberate circle.

"This really is a fabulous song," Edith muttered, and Anthony swallowed the lump in his throat to agree with her.

Anthony worried that if he focused too much on the implications of dancing with Edith Crawley in his den to a love song he might suffer a stroke, so he focused instead on the softness of her hands, the fine lines around her knuckles and the bits of paint and charcoal left on her nails that soap hadn't removed. He focused on the curve of her back as they migrated closer to one another, and then he focused on the threads of her hair, all golden and strawberry and blonde even in the dark.

And when concentrating on her person became problematic, Anthony closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking altogether. He did too, for a moment, and for the first time in years he _felt_ instead. Her head where it came to rest on his chest, the warmth from her body, the rhythm of the song and the racing of his own pulse.

It was over all too quickly, and Anthony blushed with embarrassment when he realized he was a bit slow in releasing his hold on Edith. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and questioning and almost frightened.

Then she smiled.

"Thank you for that," she said. "I've never danced with anyone before. I'm sorry if I was terrible."

Anthony knew he should say something. _Anything_ would be better than gaping at her like a brainless git, but he couldn't think of a thing to say, torn as he was between pushing her out the door and chaining her to the radiator. An unbearable tension hung between them, like a rubber band that would either pull them together or snap and send them flying at any moment.

The sound of the smoke alarm beeping answered the unasked question as Edith went running into the kitchen muttering apologies. The brussel sprouts seemed the only casualty, a worthy sacrifice, Anthony thought, for the memory of having Edith in his arms.

Dinner was plated and half-eaten before either of them spoke again.

"You haven't a spice rack," Edith observed.

Anthony looked around and then back to her. "I didn't realize."

"We should," then she stopped herself short. "You should pick one up. I could, I could help if you wanted."

"You might as well, seeing as you'd probably be the only one to use it."

Now would be the time, he thought, to tell her about Maude. He hadn't meant to mislead her, but he didn't know how to explain now. What would his intentions appear to be if he suddenly told her his wife had left? What if Edith grew angry, or upset, or worse.

He had stopped eating, was holding his fork midway between plate and mouth, when Edith sighed and showed him mercy. "When were you going to tell me?"

"What?" was his stupid response.

Edith didn't get angry or annoyed. She just dropped her hands to her lap and said, "Aunt Ros told me. About Maude. She um, she said she's been gone a long time. So why did you tell me she was 'away'?"

"I wasn't trying to mislead you. Not consciously really. I just, it's habit still I think. And then I wasn't sure how to bring it up without sounding like I was… I don't know. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Edith said. "I'm rather relieved actually."

"You are?" he whispered, an undeniable tightening in his gut that was half glee and half trepidation.

"I don't know why I said that," she flushed. "Anyway, I just, well I'm glad we can be friends. Not that we couldn't have been friends if you…" She gave up, laughing and dropping her head into her hands.

"We're hopeless," Anthony chuckled, glad she was as baffled by this as he.

"Indeed."

Anthony had two more bites of chicken before she spoke again.

"Anthony?"

"Yes?"

"Have you," she asked, shifting nervously in her seat. "Have you changed anything since Maude left?"

"I, well no. Do you think me terribly pathetic?"

"Of course not. I just, I could help you, if you like. Just little things you need, nothing big. I'm not trying to… Well the spice rack for instance, and you need new pans. If you wanted I could," she was struggling. Anthony thought she might even be on the verge of crying, and the thought made his heart break a bit.

"Yes please," he interjected. "I could perform an angioplasty with my eyes shut but I'm rubbish for this kind of household thing. A spice rack would be lovely, if you think it might get use."

He hoped she understood his implied question. She would be the only one to need it, and only if she planned on cooking in his home often. Any spice rack purchased for his home would, in reality, be Edith's spice rack. A small thing, but rather significant he thought.

"I think it will get plenty of use," she nodded, and Anthony released the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

A shy exchange of smiles, each satisfied with the tentative agreement, and then Edith and Anthony went back to their meals, finishing in contemplative silence.

"May I borrow some of your CDs?" Edith asked as she gathered her things to leave. They had shared tea in the den, exploring some of the less dangerous tracks, before Edith yawned and said she should be getting home.

"Of course, any you like," Anthony said.

Edith only took the Otis Redding CD they had started with. "This will do for now."

They made their goodbyes, laughed that they'd be seeing each other in the morning. "I'll become a terrible nuisance," Edith warned. "Commuting and lunches and whatever. You'll tell me if I start to pester you?"

"Won't hesitate to kick you out," Anthony teased, finding the notion of resenting Edith's presence preposterous.

"Goodnight, Anthony," she bid. And she was out the door before he could even respond. He wondered about her habit of running away in such a hurry, and flattered himself that maybe she didn't enjoy saying goodbye.

Anthony was chiding himself for his foolishness as he undressed for bed. Edith Crawley was just a neighbor, a bit lonely and probably too different from her peers to have many friends. He knew she didn't have much sympathy with her family, and he was just a kind old man she passed time with until she found something better, met someone else. All of his ridiculous fussing over what he should do was pointless, because of course she wouldn't have anything to do with him anyway.

But then through the wall of his bedroom Anthony heard a faint sound. Stilling his movements and focusing harder on it, Anthony smiled.

His home and Rosamund's were not mirror images of each other, but rather shared the exact same layout, meaning each master suite was on the east side of the second floor, and the guestrooms were on the west side of the second floor.

Meaning it must be Edith's room he shared a wall with.

Why else would he hear the dulled sounds of Otis Redding's _The Glory of Love_ coming from the house next door?

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for your continuing support of this story! I hate to sound like a broken record, but I love our Andith community. So, so much. Who needs JF anyway?


	7. Chapter 7

Anthony wasn't quite sure exactly how it had happened. Buying a spice rack and some pans was innocent enough, surely. A practical, dry thing that anyone might do. Only, when the little venture was over with he found himself asking for Edith's help with his den.

"My television is on the fritz. I don't use it often, but it wouldn't hurt to have one that operated," he said. They were standing in his entry way, and he gestured limply to his den. "I was thinking of maybe rearranging. I don't know."

"A new television?"

"I thought you might help me pick one out," he finally finished, trying very hard to look relaxed. Stupid man, so nervous about her when there was no need for it. If Anthony thought for a moment she might see something in him, he wouldn't have even gotten that far.

"Alright," Edith said flatly. She looked at him questioningly, as if she wondered what all the fuss was about. Because of course there was no earthly reason to feel so, so… uneasy around her.

Oh, but he did. His stomach was all clinched up and his palms were clammy and he could barely think straight. She was just a, a… woman, he realized with defeat. Edith Crawley was a woman. As much as he had denied the fact, she had gone and done all these things that proved him wrong.—her hair always smelled so nice, and she was an excellent little chef, and she wore this pink blouse a couple times a week that feel just low enough to…

"Let's take a look," she said softly, tugging on his sleeve and marching into the den. "We could, if you wanted, get a flat screen and hang it above your fireplace. Normally I'd say it's awful to have the tv be the center of a room, but if it's the den, well then it's alright."

She hadn't turned on the light, so as she looked around she was lit from the side from the hallway, and it gave her a warm, ethereal effect she already had in abundance.

"That sounds good," he managed, trying not to think about running his hands through her hair or pressing his face to that expanse of skin at her collarbone left bare by her blouse.

"You know, if we're doing that, these sofas wouldn't exactly work."

"Well they're old and uncomfortable anyway. I never liked them," he said quickly. Why had he never told Maude how hard they were? How he disliked the fabric? How they were too shallow for his long frame?

"Anthony. You're talking a major overhaul here," she warned. "I'm not trying to push you into…"

"I know," he said quickly. "I want to. It's time."

That seemed profound, somehow, without his intending it to.

"Okay, Anthony," she smiled.

The following weekend the den got a new television and a huge sofa with a chaise on one end, long enough for Anthony to stretch out without a problem. It was a light gray, durable fabric in what Edith called a "mid-century modern" design. He liked it very much. But then the tv had come with a BluRay player and a new sound system, and the couch had come with a new rug, and later some throw pillows.

"Edith," he said a few weeks later. "The wall paper is hideously out of place now, and the rest of the furniture in the den."

Thus a trip to Heal's brought new lighting, a coffee table, and a writing desk for under the window. In painting the walls a very fresh light blue, Edith mentioned how painting the old wood trim white, along with the built-ins, would really set off the new wall color and the dark hardwoods.

And who was he to question such a woman as Edith Crawley? Especially when, with every change she initiated and every decision they made together, another brick of the wall between them seemed to come down.

It took Anthony an inordinate amount of time to realize he just like spending time with her and didn't actually care about the house. But of course it _was_ nice seeing the changes too, long-since overdue.

That's how the paint crew had ended up redoing all the trim throughout his entire home (and it really did look much better white than the walnut color it was before). Then it just made sense for the doors to be replaced with white ones, the old brass knobs to be replaced with brushed nickel.

Next was the kitchen cabinets, refinished in white to, again, look nice against the dark hardwoods. The impractical and dated ceramic countertops were replaced with quartz, except the island which was given butcher block for cooking (Which Edith did almost every night).

Appliances were replaced, back-splashes of 'subway tile' installed, then bathrooms were updated to match the kitchen.

By the time Spring was approaching, February fading into March, Anthony's home had been completely worked over. New furniture and décor, lighter colors on the walls, everything was comfortable and informal and very much suited to Anthony's style (if he had one).

And Edith had tentatively done all of it. At Anthony's constant assurance it was what he wanted, she picked every fabric, every tile, she compared paint samples and stones for the fireplace and fixtures for the cabinets. It had been a great deal of work, and upheaval, and change.

And to Anthony's absolute shock, not one moment of it was anything but wonderful.

"You seem much more at home here now, if you don't mind my saying," Edith said one night. They were lounged in the new den, watching some murder mystery, a bowl of popcorn between them.

"Yes," he agreed. "I suppose I am. Never did care for the way it was before."

Edith chewed her lip, which he knew now was a sure sign of thinking. "Why, then, did you leave it for so long?" she asked after a while.

Anthony shrugged. "I think, I think I kept waiting for her to come back."

"What changed your mind?"

A thousand answers to that question ran through his head. And the nervousness he had ceased to feel in her presence came back all at once. The answer was obvious, and he suspected she could figure it out if she really thought about it. "I think maybe she's not coming back," he said dumbly.

Edith laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. She looked a bit sad if anything. Anthony could see it, even just by the light of the television.

Sitting in the dark with her, relatively near on the sofa, a blanket over her legs, it was hard to avoid thoughts of closing the small distance between them. Anthony had tried, most nobly, to think of Edith as a friend and a little else. But there were times when he just _ached_, head to toe, for literally the smallest hint of affection from her.

Edith would touch his arm to get his attention, hold a paint chip over his shoulder for an opinion, brush past him in a doorway. And Anthony, pathetic sod he was, _lived_ for those moments.

It had been a bit alarming the day he realized he got more thrill from the accidental touching of their hands than he ever had in his most intimate moments with Maude.

"You're getting to be a habit with me," Edith murmured, and when she turned to face him he flinched at how close their faces were. "It's a line from a song, I can't take credit. But it applies. You're, well I've gotten used to just being around you. It's difficult at work now not to wonder where you are in the building. I imagine it's akin to conjoined twins who find themselves longing to press against each other after they are separated. I'm not sure I remember how to not be around you anymore."

A strange, rambling confession. And yet his heart was suddenly beating wildly against his ribs. Anthony fancied he could feel the heat of her blushing from where he sat.

When he failed to speak, Edith continued. "Aunt Rosamund is convinced you and I sleeping together." She sounded terribly cavalier, and Anthony hadn't time to react before she went on. "Michael, my boss, he's convinced I'm all moony over some _boy_. My parents are convinced I'll never amount to anything, so they don't ask about what I do on a daily basis. My sister, Mary, is convinced she is the only person on the planet who matters. Tom is convinced that he will never find love again." Finally looking up to him again, she said, "And you, Anthony, are convinced you're still obligated to a wife who is never coming back."

Anthony swallowed painfully. Months of distance between them, of carefully treading this strange place between acquaintance and friend and confidant and more, and she was about to rip it wide open.

"Relationships are a strange thing, I guess is my point," she sighed. "And I thought I had it all figured out, but I don't at all. Most of the time I think I'm _just_ on the verge of overstaying my welcome with you. Like you can't wait to get me out of here sometimes."

"Edith," Anthony finally said, sitting up a bit and putting his feet on the floor, as if that would stop it from spinning. "You're wrong. I like having you over. You're very," he struggled for the right word. _Lovely_, and _brilliant_, and _striking_, and _unexpected_ all crossed his mind. Practically by accident he landed on "Helpful."

Her face crumpled as she stood, searching in the dark for her shoes. "Please don't call me helpful."

"What's wrong with being helpful?" Anthony asked.

She couldn't quite look at him, and Anthony stood too out of a deplorable lack of anything else to do with himself. "I've always been helpful. Mary was beautiful and elegant. Sybil was always charming, and sweet, and ambitious. And I've always just been Edith. Dutiful, and wearisome, and _helpful_."

How could she not know? Anthony was reeling a bit, utterly out of his depth and overwhelmed with emotion, something he was unaccustomed to at best. "Oh Edith," Anthony sighed.

"There's no need for platitudes, Anthony. I've been dealt my hand in terms of family, as we've all been done, and it could be so much worse. I just, I want so badly to be more than helpful to someone. Being useful is important, I understand. But I wouldn't mind being…" Edith shrugged and cut herself short.

She found her shoes then, and Anthony began to panic.

"What? What would you like to be?" Anthony asked, and he sounded impossibly grave.

"I wouldn't mind being irresistible for a change," she mumbled. Then taking a deep breath she said, "Well anyway, I'm just being whiney. I didn't mean to, to, I don't know…"

"Edith, you are a smart girl. Surely you're just being," then he winced and tried again. "I mean, you must know..."

Edith smiled wryly. "Anthony, ninety-nine percent of the time I'm convinced I know absolutely nothing."

"Oh god, Edith. Ninety-nine percent of the time I'm certain you are the only intelligent person I've ever met," he said quickly.

There were squared off, the long sofa between them, the show still flickering strange colors over her porcelain white skin.

Yes, it had been inevitable. From the moment she'd knocked on his door some three or four months ago, this little sprite who giggled and blushed and talked incessantly, he was bound to…

"I'm going to go," she said suddenly.

It was a Friday. He wouldn't see her until Monday if she didn't come over. Even then she didn't _have _to ride to work with him.

"Alright," he practically croaked. When had his throat gone so dry? She observed him for a long moment before her eyes flickered to the floor and back to his.

"Very well," she said, as if some decision had been made. He couldn't help but feel like he'd been the one to make it.

At the door Anthony helped Edith with her raincoat. Then, feeling a sudden pressure like it might be his last chance, Anthony reached for her hand. She looked alarmed, affronted almost, but she didn't pull away.

"If I could, Edith," he began. "If I thought we could… get on.." A failure. He wouldn't find the words, he knew. And even if he could, what right had he to speak them? "You're a wonderful girl, Edith. Just don't think otherwise," he finally said.

Edith tugged her hand from his then, looking rather displeased. "You're marvelous, Anthony. But you're the most frustrating human being I've ever met."

As was her habit, Edith turn back to him from the bottom step, and the porch light caught the water in her eyes. "I'm not a child, Anthony. I thought you knew."

With that she was gone, back in her own home.

After the third scotch and about the fourth round of listening to their Otis Redding cd on repeat, Anthony called her.

"What?" was her answer.

He was standing in his bedroom, leaning against the wall that they shared, as if he might feel her. "You, well," he stammered. At her huff of impatience he blurted, "My mattress is awful. Old and broken down. I need a new bed."

"So?"

"Well you did the two guest rooms, and this is the last room left. I would," and he had to take a breath that shuttered and stumbled through his chest to stop from crying a little. "I would very much appreciate your input."

Edith was quiet for a long time, and he pressed his hand to the wall, anything to be just a little bit nearer.

After an eternity, Edith said, "Alright. But once that's done, Anthony, the whole house will be finished."

A timeline, an expiration date. He recognized it even if she hadn't said it explicitly.

"Edith." Because in the moment it was the only thing that made sense in his little, strange world.

"Goodnight, Anthony."

He waited until he heard it before he slumped into his bed. The muffled sounds of Otis he had become accustomed to…

As long as there's the two of us

We've got the world and all its charms

_ And when the world is through with us_

_ We've got each other's arms_

_ You've got to win a little, lose a little_

_ And always have the blues a little_

_ That's the story of, that's the glory of love_

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for continuing to read and review! I struggled with this chapter for a long time and have finally given up. I've been reading some truly amazing fiction here lately, so thank you and kudos! Good ship Andith floats on...


	8. Chapter 8

Edith had always been lonely. From the time she was a young child, she could remember feeling a distance between her and her family. With boarding school and age, that distance only grew. She had tried, for a time, to win her parents' attention and later their approval, but she lost on both counts to her sisters.

She had never gotten along with Mary, who was different from Edith in every way. Sybil was a dear, of course, but Sybil loved everyone from Arthur the Gardener to Isis the Dog. So Edith had accepted that she must forge ahead alone. Or had chosen to, she couldn't be sure which. And it was fine. To an extent.

Where Edith struggled was that she _was_ lonely, deep down in her bones she ached for a companion. But she would always prefer solitude over the company of those who would never understand her.

It was easier to be alone than to be surrounded by others and still be heartbreakingly lonely.

With Anthony she was neither alone, nor lonely. He was changeable, odd even, but she only found more comfort in that. If he was out of practice with social graces she didn't have to worry about saying or doing something wrong. And when he wasn't putting his foot in his mouth, he was really very sweet. And handsome. So very, very handsome.

Perhaps that was the reason she could be so patient with Anthony. It wasn't always easy, but Edith was willing to wait, to see past his idiosyncratic defenses and simply let things unfold. It wasn't always so easy to justify the waiting, though. She was young, her time could likely be better spent than hanging around this middle aged man, searching for the slightest hint of change.

At least, that's what she told herself when she was trying to be reasonable.

When Anthony first asked for her help with the television Edith tempered her excitement because, of course, it was only a television. But the way he always lingered in the doorway after their visits, not letting her leave but not asking her to stay, she realized it was just the beginning.

It was in early December that Edith stopped wondering what she was waiting for. She had been hanging drapes in his lounge—drapes that she insisted _he_ pick out because it was _his_ house and the whole endeavor was meant to make it _his_. Anthony was feeding the fabric to her as she eased it onto the curtain rod. When she, graceless thing she was, began to wobble atop her stool, Anthony's hand steadied her by clutching the muscular back of her thigh.

A hitched breath, pointed eye contact, a roaring stillness. The tips of his fingers were gripping her inner thigh, accidentally of course, but it was still a place she'd never been touched by anyone else.

"Come down from there before you hurt yourself," Anthony had said, voice hoarse.

When Edith had braced herself on his shoulders to climb down, his hands had traveled to grab her hips. When she stopped level with him, and ran the tip of one index finger feather light over the skin above his collar, his eyes fluttered close. His thumbs pressed into her hips like she were holding him up instead of the other way around.

Then Anthony had dropped his hands quickly and stepped back, guiding Edith by her elbow until she was on solid ground. It had only been a moment, a split-second interaction, and in it everything changed. She had wanted him for a good while, but that Anthony wanted her was a surprise to Edith.

After that day, Edith noticed a pattern. They would be getting along just fine in their established routine—drive in to work, possibly a lunch together, drive home, most often dinner at Anthony's, and on weekends the house—and out of nowhere an unbearable tension would rise between them. He would give her the strangest, most complex looks, and he would flinch. Then he would begin with the clipped words and frowning, usually followed by a terse silence. Edith grew almost fond of these moods in Anthony because she realized it indicated he was having a particularly hard time keeping her at arm's length.

When Anthony gave her a record player for Christmas with several vintage albums, she grew certain he was worth the wait, that he cared about her a little at least. After that every 'favor' he asked her, each errand they ran together, every little chat they shared about the weather or her parents or his childhood, all of it only made her more certain.

So, she was happy to be patient with Dr. Anthony Strallan. All he needed was a little time.

Still, it could be terribly, terribly frustrating.

Her poor, youthful body was filling her mind and her heart with all kinds of hormonal longing. The more time she spent with him the more magnetized her blood seemed to become, drawn helplessly toward Anthony. And the more she ached for him the harder he fought to keep her away.

Usually, she could brush it off, hold to that steadfast patience that had been her lifeboat for these months. But sometimes it just made her feel dumb, and silly, and immature, and hideously unattractive.

Especially when he caught her in one of her little fevered fits. Like one Tuesday night in January on their way home from work, stuck in absolute gridlock. Edith had been passing the time by staring at him surreptitiously from her side of the car.

Suddenly Anthony glanced over and asked, "Is it too warm for you?" He began fiddling with the buttons on the dash. Edith realized then she had gone all red for about the hundredth time that day.

"No, no I'm fine, Anthony." She had reached out to still his hand from changing the climate control dial, and he looked at her sideways before snatching it away.

"I'm sorry," Edith mumbled, pulling her sweater around her more tightly. It was a grisly night—wet and dark and cold.

"Don't be sorry," he had grumbled, rubbing his forehead and frowning.

Edith felt flustered and apologetic and angry all at once.

"Bloody dreadful weather," his voice had trailed off as his eyes darted over traffic. Even illuminated red and gold from brake lights and street lamps and rain, Anthony was incredibly attractive.

Edith found it so difficult sometimes to contain herself when she was allowed to fully observe him. His masculinity was a real wonder to her, because of course he was the only man she'd ever felt more than platonic indifference toward. Where teachers and uncles and strangers had been vague figures, androgynous and simply different from herself, Anthony was suddenly real and tangible and very much a _man_. The course hair on his forearms, the grain of his shaved face and neck, the thick muscles of his legs and the square of his shoulders beneath his clothes. She was _fascinated_ by his every feature.

On this train of thought, Edith's eyes had traveled to his fly. She couldn't help herself. She had a sort of semi-academic curiosity about the thing, and she didn't chide herself for it either. Until she had glanced up and found that he was watching her.

She had panicked for a moment, before she noticed the way his breathing had become more labored and his eyes had taken on a strange, wild look. Edith felt her bones turn to liquid, felt the heat flush through her, felt her teeth bite into her lower lip. She was half-curled up on the seat, and her hips slid toward the console, toward Anthony, of their own volition as she reclined further against the window.

"Perhaps a bit too warm," he had finally said. And that was it. He had turned on the air conditioning, fixed his eyes on the car ahead of him, and hadn't said another word until he bid her goodnight.

That Tuesday was neither the first nor last night Edith took care of herself with thoughts of the quiet man next door. She would muffle her moans against her pillow and _ache_ from the emptiness she couldn't fill herself, and think of him just on the other side of the wall doing whatever it was a lonely man does late at night in the privacy of his room. She always came fastest when she fancied he was doing the exact same thing, thinking of her and muttering her name to himself.

This being her only source of relief, Edith found herself relying on it more and more. She'd _never_ been so interested in _that_ in the past, driven only by a natural curiosity about herself and the occasional naughty novel. But just the sight of him—in scrubs flipping through a chart, in old trousers and a grandfather shirt painting the downstairs washroom, sitting at the kitchen table, relaxed and content—oh, she just couldn't control her response.

Edith had been absolutely _pulsating_ with the urge to touch him that night on the sofa, when she nearly bore her soul to Anthony. She had said enough to give herself away. He couldn't doubt her feelings now, or the tension between them. But her heart couldn't take the silence anymore.

She could be patient. She could take it slowly, wait for him to come around one step at a time. But he _had _to take the steps. Stalemate couldn't last forever.

Then again, she might happily grow old waiting on Anthony if there was even a glimmer of hope he would come around.

Stupid man, always making things so difficult. Why couldn't she have fallen for someone less afraid?

_Oh god,_ she thought, chewing her thumb nail, _I really have fallen, haven't I? Not just lust, but…_

"Edith, this might be the first time in six months you've been so silent," Anthony noted gently.

They were standing with a salesman in front of a slew of mattresses, the little clerk urging them both to try some out. Edith looked up at Anthony, at the concern pulling his features into a scowl.

"Is this about," he began, but then shook his head. "I can't give you what you want," he sighed under his breath. "If you want to go..."

"No, I don't want to go. I just wish things were different. I thought things were different."

"So sorry," the clerk butted in. "Do you need a few moments?"

Anthony seemed about to say yes when Edith turned away from him. "No, sorry. We're looking for a king, I should think, given his height."

It took Anthony a good while to finally pick up his feet and trudge after them as the clerk and Edith went walking around the displays. When asked if they preferred a firmer or softer mattress Edith scoffed. "This isn't my bed, it's no matter to me." She turned to Anthony, who was sulking like a child, with his hands fisted in his trousers and his shoulders slumped.

"Sir?" the clerk prompted, trying to sound cheery despite his obvious discomfort.

"Firmer, I suppose," he shrugged, and he had the nerve to look truly putout as he was forced to lay down on mattress after mattress. Alone.

"This one will do fine," Anthony said after about the fourth.

"Are you certain?" Edith huffed. She was finding it difficult to remain pleasant. Was she so unreasonable to be upset with him? Probably, given that he hadn't made any promises to her in the first place. He owed her nothing, and he had never misled her.

"I, I don't know," Anthony said. He was sitting on the end of the bed, looking up at Edith like a prisoner waiting for his judgment.

The clerk, a short young man with slicked hair and a scar on his chin, clapped his stumpy hands together. "Well, it's not a decision to be taken lightly, Sir, if you don't mind my saying. A mattress is a big purchase, it can affect your life, and for a long time. You need to find the one that's the right fit or you'll be good and miserable when you wake in the morning."

Edith, irritated at the tears in her eyes, snorted a derisive laugh and stalked off, leaving Anthony to his oh-so-important decision making in favor of looking at linens.

She was quite a bit calmer when, fifteen or twenty minutes later, he appeared from around a display of drapery looking all sheepish and timid.

"Did you pick one?" she asked, not really looking at him.

"I went for the firmer one, with the added memory foam," he said softly.

"In king?"

"Yes."

"Good," Edith clipped, pushing two packs of sheets into his arms. One was gray with a subtle herringbone pattern, the other solid white. "Take these. There are a few duvets I want you to choose from. You're single, you're a man, you needn't anything floral, but that doesn't mean it has to be heavy jewel tones and plaid," she rambled.

"Edith," he interjected.

"I like this dark gray quilt, for texture, and this duvet here in either white or this pale blue."

"Yes, alright," he agreed. "I like them both very much, actually. You pick."

Edith pulled the bundles of the correct size from the shelf and left for the register.

Anthony didn't speak again until they were at his house and she was loading his sheets into the washer.

"I know you're angry with me," he began.

"I'm not angry," Edith snapped. Realizing how harsh she sounded, she turned to face him, making eye contact for the first time all night. Her body betrayed her then, and her heart. Lips parted, pulse racing, face flushing, she waited.

She was always waiting.

"Edith, we can't possibly…" was all he managed.

"I haven't a choice in this anymore, you know."

"You're, a child practically. You're _so_ _young_," Anthony said. He had one arm folded over his chest, the other propped against it as he cradled his chin. Like he was contemplating the inner workings of the cardiovascular system and not deciding the fate of her happiness.

"You know me better than anyone, Anthony. Do I seem that young to you? Am I frivolous and wild and immature?"

"No," he said gravely. "But you should be."

That stung, Edith was surprised to find. Was she broken in his eyes? Somehow inadequate?

"I know I'm odd," she replied, swallowing thickly. "I do. But I think we're good together, that we fit. I know I'm probably not what you have in mind when you think of…"

"I don't think of anything," Anthony said quickly, causing Edith to look away again. Out of embarrassment or fear of him she couldn't be sure. "What I mean is, I don't, I never planned on…"

The rain outside was loud, even in the windowless laundry closet.

The silence inside was even louder.

"You were a surprise," Anthony finally said. "I don't handle surprises well. And what a pleasant surprise you've been too. You've been such a good friend, Edith. So helpful."

He may as well have struck her. Edith shook her head and walked away.

At the front door Edith finally obliged Anthony's pleas to stop.

Always, it seemed, their relationship hinged on decisions made here at the entry to his home, on things said, on looks exchanged in the yellow light of the street lamps and the dim wall sconces.

"I can't Edith," he whispered. "I won't."

"Because of Maude?" she asked.

Rain poured in through the open door, soaking the new limestone floors in the entry.

And Edith, counting the beats before he would answer, waited.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all so much for your lovely support, and for continuing to read. I was trying to capture Edith's thought process here, and the confusion she has about what she's feeling and what she should be doing. I hope it makes sense, or at least as much sense as it does to Edith. :) Happy reading and writing!

Always,  
Eleanor


	9. Chapter 9

Mild M for the following, just in case...

* * *

_"Because of Maude?"_ Edith had asked. And she had looked so beseeching while she waited for his answer. Yes would have been the easy way out, but it also would have been a lie.

Anthony shut the door, pulling Edith back into his home. He needed to tell her something, she wouldn't stand for silence any longer. Just what he was going to say, he wasn't yet sure of.

Looking down at her, all obstinacy and determination, Anthony felt his will crumbling. She was wearing little brown tweed trousers that showed her skinny ankles, with a cream blouse tucked in. It showed off her flat tummy, her small breasts, slender hips. Hints of youth still remained—the roundness of her face, the way her hands were soft and fleshy instead of bony and papery. He imagined those hands in his, on his chest, through his hair.

But this had to be a decision made with the head, not with the heart (or any other bit of his anatomy). And Anthony loathed that he was the one that had to make it. Why couldn't she have fallen for someone younger, better suited? Why did she have to make him fall for her in return?

_Oh for god's sake_, he groaned internally. _I've damnwell fallen for the little thing_.

Anthony walked into the lounge, not bothering with the lights, and dropped to one of the new armless chairs Edith said were 'perfect for the space'. What the hell had he been thinking, spending all this time with her, letting her into his home?

Edith followed, but still said nothing.

It wasn't about Maude, his reluctance to… do whatever it was Edith wanted. It really wasn't. It was about Edith, and the fact that she couldn't possibly know what she wants or needs. Anthony knew from their many conversations how lonely she was in her life, however short that life had been. And they did make each other happy. Anthony laughed, actually laughed, when he was around Edith. She made the place he slept into a real home.

She was _perfection_.

But he couldn't have her. Because in ten years, or five years, or five months she would wake up one morning to regret him. She would run a finger over his wrinkles, see the thinning of his hair, and lose interest. Or she would get bored with whatever little domestic life they formed.

He thought of Maude then, of the way she would ask him to take her dancing and then be annoyed when he was bad at it, or the way she would scold him for being too tired after a day of surgeries to do much beyond showering and wolfing down a sandwich.

One time, in particular, Anthony remembered sitting quietly in his den pouring over some old novel. He couldn't recall what he had been reading, or even why, but he had looked up to find Maude standing in the doorway watching him. It wasn't the way a wife watches her husband in fondness. That day Maude had borne an expression of absolute bewilderment and scorn, as if she couldn't figure out how she had been saddled with such a creature as Anthony.

When Anthony had asked what was wrong, Maude said "I can't believe I ever found you exciting." She'd turned and walked away, and after that day Anthony stopped expecting Maude to come to their bed, or even be home at reasonable hours. He just stopped expecting altogether.

Now, looking up at Edith, Anthony tried to imagine the same disdain tainting her features, and his heart broke at the thought.

He wouldn't steal time from her.

Maude had been a bit older than Edith when Anthony met her, and she still resented him for wasting her youth. What would Edith think of him if he took hers at twenty?

Edith sighed, pulling Anthony from his worrying. She was still waiting for him to speak.

"You've filled my rooms with trinkets, your smell is everywhere, I haven't slept in weeks…" he said, almost to himself. How would he learn to live without her? How would he undo the way he had come to rely on her? It was his mistake in the first place, to ever let her in.

Edith's face contorted, something between hurt and rage. "You asked me to do this. You _asked_ me to help you. And I thought it was to help you move on. I thought all of this was some great sign of your rejoining the real world. Don't you dare act like I invaded."

"That's not what I meant to say," Anthony replied.

"Why don't you try saying what you do mean?" she snapped. "Just once, say what you mean."

"Edith," he breathed. He loved her, or he thought he could. But that didn't count for much in this situation. "I think you should go."

She shrank away then, her face falling. "I just need to know, Anthony—is this because you don't want me? Or because you think you shouldn't have me?"

Edith sounded so strong, so much stronger than he could ever hope to be. But for her sake, for her happiness, he would be firm in this at least.

"I don't want you," Anthony answered slowly, tasting the foulness of every word. He hardly recognized his own voice. His stomach turned, his heart withered. How could emotion physically hurt? Even when Maude left he hadn't _felt_ it like this, all the way through, right down to his marrow. "Not, not in that way. I'm sorry."

Edith narrowed her eyes for a moment, as if she might see something more than the words coming from his mouth. Then she swallowed and nodded. "I'm sorry, Anthony. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," he was quick to point out. "This isn't… You didn't."

"It is my fault," she said, finishing the sentence he hadn't. "I'm sorry. I'll go. I'll find my own way to work and such. You've been more than patient and generous, and I don't wish to trespass on your kindness any more than I already have."

"You weren't, you weren't trespassing, Edith. You were," he began.

"I was being helpful," she finished. "I know."

This time when Edith tried to leave, Anthony didn't stop her. He sat in the dark of the lounge and looked at all the new things, all the ways she had improved his life. She was mistaken, she had been helping him move on. Only now Anthony was doing the same for her, helping her get on with her life.

That night, Anthony didn't hear any music from her side of the wall. He didn't hear anything at all for that matter. The next day when his new mattress was delivered, he made the bed with the sort of solemnity the orderlies clean an operating room after a surgery has gone awry.

He had done the right thing, of that Anthony was certain. And he didn't care much for his own broken heart, he would live with it. What bothered him was how easily Edith had believed him, how quickly she had accepted that he simply wasn't interested in her.

It took the rest of the weekend and the remainder of his scotch to convince Anthony that Edith was likely relieved more than anything, that she would bounce back quickly and that she had probably already begun to forget about him.

Monday was hell for Anthony. A tedious commute with only his hangover for company, he found himself as terrified of bumping into Edith as he was disappointed that he hadn't. He kept mostly to his office that week, except for the surgeries already on his schedule. Between working in the same building and living next door to one another, Anthony assumed they would run into each other, but he didn't see Edith for weeks.

He was miserable.

After a month Anthony stopped using the den, as it was the room in his house that was most Edith's. The lounge followed after that, and eventually he pared his life down to the microwave in the kitchen and his bedroom. Books piled up on the end tables and floor around his bed. Clothes never made it out of the bags the laundry service brought them in. Worst of all, empty tumblers from his nightcaps (which grew more frequent) laid on the floor against the wall he shared with Edith. Because every night he would sit against the wall (like a bloody madman) and listen for any hint of her.

Drawers closing, the occasional thump (likely from a dropped book), the usual coming and going of life was all he heard. Never music, never their music.

It was nearly two months into this awful new existence when Anthony saw Edith for the first time. He figured out she had been keeping a new schedule to avoid seeing him in passing, but today her schedule failed her.

He had finished early with a department meeting and decided to get a quick meal in before his rounds and afternoon consultations. He was just picking a table, sandwich and coffee in hand, when he spotted her.

Across the cafeteria Edith was sitting across from her boss, smiling softly into her tea. The man-her boss, whatever his name was—was apparently saying something funny. Then he reached out, the bastard, and touched Edith's forearm. Anthony felt something like rage bubble up inside him. And in that moment Edith looked up and caught him staring.

She pulled away from her companion without a word and stood. Anthony didn't even have time to react as she was already marching toward him, calm but determined. Edith didn't speak to him, she hardly even slowed down, but she tugged on his arm as she passed, pulling him behind her down the hall after discarding his uneaten meal herself.

He didn't dare speak. Not when she so clearly had something to say. Tightlipped and red in the cheeks, Edith pushed Anthony into a nearby supply closet and slammed the door shut.

"What is your problem?" she asked. Her voice was quiet but firm, her brow bent in anger.

"I don't have a problem," Anthony answered automatically. He tried to back away from her, but ended up just bumping into a sturdy set of shelves instead. Edith took a step closer, and even a foot shorter she intimidated the hell out of him. He wouldn't ever think of her as Little Edith again.

"I know you too well, Anthony. And I know that stupid, constipated frown you get when you're unhappy. It's not your pretend frown, it's the real one. You don't get to be unhappy about me."

"I just don't like that Mitchel fellow you're always spending time with."

Edith's eyes flashed with a kind of ire Anthony had forgotten women could possess. It was beautiful. And terrifying. "It's _Michael_ and he's my _boss_ and you don't get to make those kinds of judgments anyway."

"He wants to be more than your boss, any idiot can see that."

"Yes, well you're one idiot who isn't allowed to comment." Edith's hands were on her hips, cutting into the billowy cotton dress she wore. It was late April, and Anthony hadn't noticed the transition into Spring until he saw her bare legs for the first time. White and slender and shapely.

When Anthony finally dragged his gaze back to Edith's eyes she was still looking at him with that same cunning, fiery expression. Only now her mouth was parted and her bosom was rising with each breath she took.

Anthony was lining up a whole litany of apologies and arguments and words of advice about why she should avoid men who looked at her the way Michael just had. But all of that went blank as they stared at each other.

And then they pounced.

There was no telling who captured who in such a small space. They were all limbs and lips and grunts as Edith leapt into Anthony's arms. They stumbled, first slamming his back against the shelf behind, then her back against the door when he took control.

Thinking was an impossibility, what with Edith's limbs squeezing him tightly and his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Anthony, who was so well practiced at self-control, had no idea what to do without it. His hands pressed Edith's chest to his, then groped lower to her backside and her thighs.

"Oh, Anth-ny… Missed you," she managed, fingers scratching at his scalp and sending those hot, silvery thrills all through him.

It had been so, so long for him. Since Maude left. But the relief he felt had less to do with his lack of contact and more to do with his recent lack of Edith. Anthony wouldn't have been able to stop this, even if he wanted.

Edith bucked against him with need, pressing her center against his belly, and then groaned in frustration. Pushing off the door, she somehow maneuvered Anthony down onto a nearby stepstool, straddling his lap immediately.

Boxes of rubber gloves and hermetically sealed instruments were tumbling around them as Anthony left Edith's red, swollen lips for her porcelain throat. She arched for him, pressing her core against his length—so hard now it was almost painful.

His green scrubs and boxer briefs were a thin barrier, failing to disguise much. Edith, likewise, was only a pair of cotton knickers away from his touch. The more she rubbed against him, simulating the thing they both wanted so badly, the less friction those cloth barriers caused. Anthony could feel her wet heat dampening all three layers.

"Oh, I," she managed before forcing her lips back to hers. Anthony, having lost all semblance of thought sometime in the hallway, reached out a hand to feel her breast through her dress. When that wasn't enough, he dipped in to feel it bare beneath her bra. Warm and small, he felt her pebbled nipple against his palm.

Edith responded by grinding harder and faster against him. Both their noises grew louder. The inside of her thighs squeezed the outside of his. Her fingers fisted in his hair and pulled it painfully, which of course only added to his pleasure.

"I'm coming," she whined against his ear, breath sultry and hot.

Oh, and she was. He could feel it. Her legs trembled, the wet got wetter, her whole body gripped him in a vice. She ground hard against him again, and he came too with a surprised and less than attractive, "Annh!"

When their little tremors finally subsided, and Edith's breathing slowed, she stood and stepped away from him. Anthony was pleased by her flushed skin, glistening with a little sheen of perspiration. He was less pleased by her somewhat contemptuous smirk. She was… triumphant almost.

Without another word, Edith pulled a set of scrubs from a shelf full of them marked "Long" and tossed them his way. "You don't want me?" she scoffed, one signature eyebrow raised.

She may as well have dropped an anvil on him.

Before he could respond she was out the door, leaving a winded Anthony in the supply closet alone, beleaguered, and sticky.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read and review! I'm terribly at PMs and whatnot because I do most of this on my mobile and it's a bit cumbersome, but I hope you all know how truly wonderful your support is, and this community...

Always,  
Eleanor


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